


Scar Tissue

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Series: The Greatest Game [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Allusions to Violence, Angst, Hurt, John is a dick when he wants something, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV John, Post HLV, Scars, borderline domestic violence, sherlock is messed up, start of comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:47:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1916904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John starts to find out some of what happened when Sherlock was away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scar Tissue

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of a follow up to [Laundry](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1910307). It's not necessary to read, but this will make more sense if you do.
> 
> Also, please read the notes at the end for an explanation. A comment made me think about needing to explain why I had John react the way he did, which was VERY NOT GOOD.

_I need to speak to you. Now. –JW_

_About your brother. –JW_

_I’ll send a car. –M_

 

John sits in an over-priced, surprisingly uncomfortable chair in a stuffy, over-decorated office. Apparently, Mycroft—or Mycroft’s decorator—had settled on “Famous Royal War Heros Flanked by Suits of Armor” as a decorating motif. _Subtle, even for the British Government._

John knows this isn’t Mycroft’s _real_ office. He’s never been in Mycroft’s real office. That’s buried beneath 100 meters of reinforced concrete. Sherlock’s been in it. John thinks of NORAD, the hidey-hole in some mountain in one of what they call the “fly-over states” for the American and Canadian leaders should nuclear apocalypse ever happen. Of course Mycroft would have his very own in Britain. After “Mary” had been apprehended, Sherlock had made a wry remark that John may get to see Mycroft’s bunker very soon.

But, this front is where John waits, steadily growing more furious. Yesterday he witnessed Sherlock in a state he’d never seen him, reduced to a shadow of the man John knew. Over a dream. Even his own nightmares had never produced that much terror. Sherlock had remained quiet and drawn for the rest of the day. John had tried to draw him out with a game of Cluedo—“Board games, John?”—and Mrs. Hudson had even brought up a chocolate tart—the one food John didn’t need to trick him into eating—and he barely touched it. At approximately eight o’clock, Sherlock had gone to his room without a word and shut the door, and John had heard the lock click.

The door remained closed throughout the morning. Sherlock’s cup of tea had grown cold next to his toast on the kitchen table. Sherlock had certainly had longer sulks than that, John remembers once he stayed holed up in his room for four days. He’s pretty sure Sherlock peed in a jar so he wouldn’t have to come out. But this is different. Once his eyes had dried they had remained sunken and hollow, no hint of the manic spark always present even during his worst moods. They looked dead. John recognized it, he’d seen it. Thousand yard stare, common in the eyes of battle-weary soldiers. Sherlock was actively trying to dissociate himself from something that had been in that dream.

John was worried.

So he texted Mycroft, knowing Mycroft was smart enough to know John would only contact him if it was deadly serious.

Although honestly, with everything happening, John was a little surprised when Mycroft answered.

His left hand clenches and unclenches as he waits. John’s been waiting almost an hour; he doesn’t know how much longer he can sit, staring at a gaudy painting of the Duke of Wellington, victorious after the Battle of Waterloo. He jumps out of the chair—it was uncomfortable anyway—and starts to pace. Frankly, he doesn’t want to leave Sherlock alone for too long. He still hadn’t made an appearance when Mycroft’s car had arrived at Baker Street.

The door opens and John spins as Mycroft steps inside, Anthea hot on his heels.

“Ah, Doctor—”

“What happened when Sherlock was away?!?”

“Watson.” Mycroft eyes him warily, both eyebrows raised. “How is my little brother?”

“No games, Mycroft. No pissing contests, no riddles. I want to know. You were his ‘confident,’” John finger-quotes the words, face contorting in a sarcastic snarl, “and I know you know what went on. What. Happened.”

“He was disposing of Moriarty’s web.”

“No.” John sniffs. “That’s what it was but that’s not what it was. Something happened. What?”

Mycroft’s eyebrows descend back to their usual position and his face grows flat. John feels those eyes piercing him, the sharpest eyes he’s ever known. It sends a chill down his spine. Mycroft is far more practiced at hiding his emotion than Sherlock, and it is frankly terrifying. There’s no curiosity, none of the hint of genuine wonder Sherlock’s still have. Mycroft’s eyes rake, devour.

“Anthea.” He says suddenly, and his assistant looks up from her phone—what does she do on there—and simply nods before leaving. She shuts the door behind him. Mycroft waits a few moments, then looks at the ground. John knows he does this to disarm, to set his opponent at ease. Nothing but the truth would set John at ease right now. “John, may I ask what brought this on? What has Sherlock done?”

“Nothing. He didn’t do anything. He had a dream, a nightmare.”

“A nightmare?” Mycroft looks at John as if he is joking.

“Yes. I’ve never seen him look—or sound—like that. He was begging, crying. And then he was, just, dead.” John swallows. He doesn’t know how much he should tell Mycroft. “He locked himself in his room last night and hasn’t been out.”

“What did he say? During this dream?” Mycroft’s eyes narrow. He’s going to make John tell him.

“I told you. Begging. Offering. He said he’ll do anything. ..” John pauses. “And my name. I…I think someone was hurting me. Or hurting him while I was there, I—I don’t know. But it was, Mycroft—it was awful. And I couldn’t think of what had happened, what would have scared him so much. I’ve seen so much, and then I realized there is a chunk I haven’t seen. Two years.”

“What do you know, John, about those two years?”

“What you just said. That he was off, ‘disposing of Moriarty’s web.’” John says it with a sneer. Even now, there’s a small part of him angry with Sherlock. He’s forgiven him, would never actively hold it over his head anymore. More than anything he’s simply thrilled that he gets to see him every day. That he no longer wakes up in the morning with a brick in his gut that says _Sherlock is dead._ Or that he doesn’t make two cups of tea on auto-pilot anymore just to realize that one will never be drunk. But he is still sore that he was left behind. That Sherlock was off, having an adventure, and hadn’t thought to bring John with him. That was two years they lost.

“You think he was off on a grand adventure.”

“He’s Sherlock. Everything he does is an adventure.”

“Oh, John.” Mycroft actually sighs. SIGHS. Mycroft Holmes sighs. He walks over to a cabinet in the corner, pulls out a decanter and two tumblers. He pours one, picks it up and offers it to John.

“I’m fine. This isn’t a pub. Tell me what happened.”

“Trust me, you want this. You’ll be glad you had it if you insist on pursuing this.” Mycroft fills the other glass for himself. John reluctantly takes the scotch, begrudgingly takes a sip. It’s good, he supposes, for stuffy, over-priced scotch. Mycroft swallows some himself.

“Mycroft. What happened.”

“John, you first need to understand that Sherlock wasn’t off on some ‘adventure,’ glamorously dueling villains while you grieved in London.” Mycroft sits behind his desk. John remains standing. “In fact, I don’t think anyone would believe that, given the state of his back, no matter how dull they were.”

“What? Mycroft, what are you talking about?”

“His back, John. Surely you’ve seen it.”

“What does his back have to do with anything?”

Mycroft looks at John the way one would look at a dog that refuses to sit. As if John is the dumbest human being on the planet. “You mean to tell me, in the time he’s been back, since you’ve doctored him through two bullet wounds, you haven’t noticed his back?”

“Mycroft, I AM a doctor, you know,” John is perturbed. “If there was something wrong—” But John stops. He realizes, suddenly, that he _hasn’t_ seen Sherlock’s back. If Mycroft hadn’t mentioned it, he wouldn’t have thought to even consider it. In the hospital after Mary shot him he was always in bed or in a tied gown. When exiting the shower naked as Sherlock was wont to do, he wasn’t _precisely_ naked, he had a towel wrapped around his shoulders. Odd. While walking around in his pants he always made sure to have a dressing gown on, even if it was open. And after this last bullet wound, when John was tasked with changing the bandages, Sherlock would always simply pull down the shoulder of his shirt or gown, never fully removing it. John has not seen Sherlock’s bare back in the time since he’s returned. “I haven’t. I actually haven’t seen it…”

“Mmm.” Mycroft hums.

“What wrong with his back, Mycroft? What happened?”

“John, it is not my place to tell you, unfortunately. And you know as well as I do that little brother would be none too happy if he knew you were here, or that I was telling you anything.” Mycroft leans forward a bit. “It was not an adventure, John. Sherlock spent a miserable two years away, far more miserable than even I knew until I pulled him out. It would have been longer if I hadn’t, if he’d even have survived at all.”

“Mycroft…” John growls in warning. “What did I say about riddles?”

“He’ll tell you in his own time, John. Like I said, it is not my place, and certainly not if he hasn’t told you yet.” Mycroft’s voice lifts a bit at the end of his sentence. John knows what he’s doing. Planting a seed. Pointing John in the direction he needs to go, but going no further for fear of stepping on a landmine.

“What do I do?”

“I don’t know.” Mycroft shrugs. “But be gentle. You know as much as I how fragile he really is. You just saw it yesterday.”

****

Mycroft’s car drops John back at Baker Street. He feels sick. Bile has been burning the back of his throat since he left Mycroft’s office. He doesn’t know what to do. Well, he has to get a look at Sherlock’s back. Mycroft slyly gave him that information. John half wonders if Mycroft was waiting for John to come to him, had his advice scripted for when he did. John knows in his heart that Mycroft cares for Sherlock above all things, even his precious Government. Did it eat at him, knowing what he knew and not being able to tell John?

His legs feel heavy as he walks up the stairs to 221B. When John steps into the kitchen, he sees Sherlock’s bedroom door open. Well, at least he came out. The bathroom door is closed, steam puffing out in the crack above the floor. The water isn’t running anymore. John fills the kettle and turns it on. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do just yet but he’ll be in the kitchen with tea when Sherlock comes out. It’s a start, right?

Before the kettle boils, John hears something in the bathroom. It’s not water, or rustling. It’s Sherlock. He’s not talking, it almost sounds like a choke. John walks over to the door and presses his ear against the wood. Sherlock sounds like he’s hyperventilating, taking deep, shuddering breaths. He sounds like he’s crying.

“Sherlock?” John calls through the door. “Everything all right?”

“John?!” Sherlock is startled. John hears something rattle to the floor. Sherlock must have jumped and knocked something over. His voice is heavy and wavery. “I-I’ll…just a minute. I’ll be right out.”

John doesn’t give him a minute. He opens the door and enters the bathroom, into a cloud of steam.   Sherlock jumps and steps backwards against the wall. A towel is around his waist. His white skin is pink and splotchy. Scalded almost. John springs into doctor-mode. It’s instinctual now, he can’t help it.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock! How hot of a shower did you take? You’re bright red!”

“I’m fine, John! Do you mind?” Sherlock’s eyes are red too.

“Jesus Christ…at least let me make sure you aren’t burned…” John reaches out to grab Sherlock’s wrist and pull him into the center of the bathroom to examine him, but Sherlock jerks his hand away and takes another step backwards. He’s flush with the wall now, still facing John.

“I’m not a child, John. I know how to shower without burning myself.” Sherlock snaps. “Now can I finish in peace, or would you like to dress me too?”

John instantly recognizes a defensive Sherlock trying to go on the offensive, backed into a corner. His mind snaps back to what Mycroft said to him. _Surely you’ve seen his back._

“Sherlock.” John takes a step further into the bathroom. “Let me see your back.”

“What?” Sherlock stiffens.

“Your back, Sherlock. I should examine your exit wound.”

“It’s fine.”

“I need to look.”

“No, you don’t. Now please leave.”

“Sherlock.” John’s voice hardens and he takes another step.

“John, you haven’t needed to check it in weeks. It’s FINE.”

“Please, Sherlock. I need to see it.”

“No.” Sherlock’s eyes narrow, and he presses tighter against the wall. He recognizes that it’s not the bullet wound. John knows that look.

“I mean it, Sherlock.”

“John, no. _I_ mean it. Everything is fine.” Sherlock is practically cowering against the wall, eyes wide under his wet curls. He looks scared.

“Sherlock…” John reaches out and grabs Sherlock’s hands, trying to pull him off the wall, gently at first.

“No, John!” Sherlock pulls back, jerking John forward as he tries to pull away. He wasn’t prepared for an active fight, but he doesn’t let go of Sherlock’s wrists.

“Sherlock, please. You need to show me.”

“No, I don’t!” Sherlock twists, trying to break John’s grip but failing. John’s a soldier, he could have Sherlock on his knees in a choke-hold in two seconds if he wanted, but he’s trying to be gentle. Or was. Sherlock’s being much more violent than he expected.

“Sherlock,” John pulls again, harder this time, and Sherlock actively lifts his foot to hold him back. “Sherlock, you will show me your back.”

“I said NO!” Sherlock twists his arms, then flings forward, trying to take John by surprise and escape out the door. John twists his arms and pins them, reaching around to clasp Sherlock’s wrists behind his back at his waist. Sherlock continues to wriggle in John’s embrace, struggling against his hold. John, years of army training and Sherlock-wrangling on his hide, moves quickly to step behind him, and Sherlock responds by trying to twist around to face him again, still struggling to pull away. “John, PLEASE!”

John’s too fast and gets behind him, so Sherlock bucks down, trying to throw John over his shoulders or at least get him to loosen his grip. John growls, angry now at Sherlock’s violent rebuttal, and presses his knee into Sherlock’s back.

“Sherlock, stop.”

“Please, John. Don’t.” John hears the same desperation in Sherlock’s voice that he heard yesterday during the nightmare, but he pushes his knee gently into Sherlock’s back, forcing him to his knees on the floor. When he’s down John follows and releases his wrists. Sherlock’s towel has come loose and he immediately grabs at, trying to pull it up and wrap it but John stops him. “John…”

John doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move. For the first time, Sherlock’s back is bared to him and John has to actively fight the urge to vomit. He just barely sees Sherlock’s shoulders sink in defeat as he braces his hands on the floor. John’s eyes are focused on the silver and purple marks, burns, HOLES on Sherlock’s back.

“Sherlock…” The majority of his back is covered in marks, scars. Some long and thin, others larger, evidence of chunks flayed away from his body. Small, circular burns, obviously from cigarettes. A larger one, angry purple still, probably from a small torch or hot metal. John reaches out to trace along one of the larger wounds, a gaping canyon. It looks as though someone had actually carved out Sherlock’s flesh.

Sherlock shudders when John’s fingers touch him and he curls in on himself, head bowed. “John…”

“Sherlock…” John’s hands move to shift him slightly. The cuts marks extend over onto his sides. One mark looks like a veritable stab-wound. Several look as if they didn’t heal properly, stitched up and ripped open again. Lines are carved around his ribs. Of all the marks, the bullet wound high on his shoulder is the neatest looking one. An exit wound, neat by comparison. “Sherlock…why—why didn’t you tell me?”

“I—I don’t know.” Sherlock mumbles. “Why? What was the point?”

“When did these happen?”

“When I was d—away.”

“When? It couldn’t, it couldn’t have been this the whole time?” John is still examining, his practiced doctor’s hands tracing. He feels his ribs, searching for poorly healed fractures. He feels some and swallows hard.

“Yes. But many…many are from before Mycroft found me…” Sherlock’s voice drifts off.

That hits John in the gut. “Sherlock, did you have these when you got back?”

Sherlock hesitates for a moment. “Yes…”

John squeezes his eyes shut. The poorly healed cuts, evidence of ripped stitches. He tackled Sherlock when he returned. Threw him to the ground and tackled him and tried to break his nose. And Sherlock never let on how much pain he was in. He let John.

“Sherlock…” John moves his arms to Sherlock’s shoulders, gripping tightly. He takes a deep breath. “Sherlock…I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“John…”

“I was mad, still, still mad because you went off without me. You left me behind and went on an adventure…and I’m sorry. But you should have taken me with you. I should have been there.” John’s voice is a tight and thin, barely contained. “I could have helped you. I would have stopped this.” He’s breathing hard.

“I couldn’t, John. I couldn’t. They would have done this to you, used you to get to me…”

“No. No, Sherlock. I wouldn’t have let them. And…you wouldn’t have been alone. You didn’t have to do it alone.…” John leans forward, presses his face between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, squeezes his shoulders a bit too hard. “I wouldn’t have let them hurt you. I would have stopped them. I wouldn’t have let you be hurt for me…”

“John.” Sherlock says simply, when he feels tears against his bare back.

**Author's Note:**

> Why I had John force Sherlock to show him. This is pretty much a copy/paste of a comment response that made me think perhaps I should explain.
> 
> This comes down to my character interpretation of John based on what I’ve gleaned from the show and interviews. Yours may be totally different and I am all for that, it’s the fun of art and who am I to tell someone they are interpreting something wrong? My interpretation of John is that he is not a healthy person. He may be the healthier of the two, but that’s like being the valedictorian of summer school. Congratulations, of all the people who suck you suck the least. I think John’s calm, stable, and selfless demeanor is just a front. A good one, but a front.
> 
> a. John has trust issues and PTSD. He buries it, but it’s there. His adventures with Sherlock are a coping mechanism. I think we were supposed to read John as suicidal in ASiP.  
> b. John can’t confront his emotions. In show—and mentioned by the powers that be—he drinks when he’s uncomfortable and has to deal with something he doesn’t want to. I kind of tried to allude to that with Mycroft and the scotch. Mycroft knows.   
> c. John has epic jealousy issues when it comes to Sherlock; he doesn’t like when people get close to him—Irene, Janine, even Moriarty makes John jealous—and I think part of it is that there is someone besides him privy to Sherlock’s secrets. He even does it with Molly! From his blog, “He even replaced me! I refused to go back to Baker Street so he replaced me with Molly Hooper and started solving cases while he worked on the terrorist thing.” Calm yourself, John.   
> d. The one time John tried to sit down and ask Sherlock how he was—after Irene—it was awful and awkward and he had a drink, one of his other coping mechanisms.  
> e. His BFF—and possibly love of his life, your YMMV—“died,” left him alone to grieve to who knows what extent (we never see all of it), he falls in love with an assassin, then his BFF comes back from what John is sure was a FANTASTIC ADVENTURE having left him alone to be miserable, and after everything he did for Sherlock. John Watson has trust issues, and Sherlock lied to him after watching him commit suicide. John attacks him when he comes back, because he’s LIVID. It’s not healthy, but it’s not unbelievable either. It’s human.  
> f. Why I think John was under the impression Sherlock was out having a blast without him, again from his blog, “I knew that he was out there having the time of his life and I was... working.” John probably had no idea how horrible it was. In my reading, John thinks Sherlock was on an adventure and John was miserable.  
> g. The other important person in his life lied to him. John’s outburst in the apartment was…less than calm. I think he was truly trying to hold himself back from beating the shit out of everything in sight. The man with trust issues was lied to, AGAIN. 
> 
> So, now back to my story—which is kind of a way of writing metas for what I think is going on in my interpretations—it’s after HLV and Sherlock is Sherlock and Moriarty is back (more coming in the future) and he’s free of Mary and finally thinking he’s getting Sherlock to open up to him and he’s slowly working his John “Three Continents” Watson magic on his repressed, uppity BFF who he loves and BAM. There’s more being kept from him. His person is STILL lying to him, and he is battling trying to be understanding and his residual anger over being left back in London and that betrayal and he has to KNOW and Sherlock is still trying to lie to him.
> 
> Do I think it was the right thing to do? No. No no no. Violence is never the answer (unless it is) but it’s not in this. But this is a troubled, unhealthy man with trust issues and PTSD who is fed up being lied to. I tried to have John feeling bad in the next one because the right thing to do would be sit and be gentle but in my interpretation of John, and my own experiences with mental health issues, it’s kind of a fairy tale. Sometimes upset humans don’t do what they know they’re supposed to. And it’ll come up again, with John knowing his reaction wasn’t the best.  
> Your character interpretation may be totally different, but this is mine and why I kind of had him go ape-shit and force Sherlock to do it. I just wanted to explain so you didn’t think I was using borderline domestic violence for the purposes of angst.


End file.
